Exquisite thing soft cradled by the tide,
Sprung not from lathe or wheel or human wit,
Wonder of whorls which touch the infinite,—
Shallop that waits a brave undine's white bride!
Within, the smooth and sheeny walls are dyed
With the pure pink of autumn dawns alit;
Without, with stories of the deep o'er-writ,—
How fairy slight the thunderous seas to ride!
The massy tides gride over reef and ledge,
And sudden waves from fell Euroclydon
Dash to swift death the sailor in the Bay;
But this, all lipt with pearl, and on the edge
Of doom—the fingers of a babe might slay—
Sleeps in the stressful surge at Blomidon.